Inferi
by mostenoble
Summary: Ginny Weasley is recovering, like all others, after the war to end all wars comes to a close. Gripped by tragedy, life must go on but when the nightmares still visit and there's money on her doorstep, can she resist the ultimate revenge?
1. Gone

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters you recognise here. If I did, and I was J.K Rowling, I would be living in Britain, which I am not (sadly). I would also be making money from writing, which I am not.**

* * *

Ginny sat on the edge of her bed, twirling the scarlet covers around her fingers with ease, occasionally ripping a nail off. They were long and overgrown and she was long past the point of caring. She hadn't been in the dormitory since before Easter, before she'd fled with Fred and George, and she had left her nail clippers behind. To be truthful, they had been kept stashed beneath her bed just in case, although they hindered her ability to scratch the Carrows up the face and for that alone she had no care for them.

The room was empty, now, and a strange, cold Spring wind blew in through one of the open windows as it rattled. Glass lay broken on the floor below it, blood dripping off the sharp edges. Ginny blew lightly on her left knuckle, and was rewarded with a satisfying flicked her wand with the other hand, untangling it from the blankets, and some bandages landed neatly on her lap. _If they think it's from the battle, I won't get into trouble. Mum'll fuss, but it won't be bad._ Carefully, she manoeuvred her fingers around and around until her knuckle was neatly bandaged and you couldn't see the blood.

Her legs began to work, slowly standing up and she wobbled as she got to her feet. She'd been asleep since the early hours of the morning; she couldn't stand it, she'd ran away and sobbed in her dormitory because she couldn't bear to cry where everyone could see her, and the hole in her chest was a gasping, festering wound she couldn't clog. She was sure that maybe her mother, or Hermione, would know where she was, but she couldn't be certain about any of the others. Ginny tucked a few stray strands of red hair behind her ear and took a deep, shaking breath. _I have to face them. I'm a Gryffindor. Bravery is one of our traits. I can be brave._

She found herself opening the door of her dormitory slowly, fingers trembling. She wasn't sure who she expected to talk to - Harry would be resting, or being interviewed, and Ron and Hermione with him. Colin - Colin was dead. Her eyes burnt. Colin had died in the battle. _His birthday. It's his birthday tomorrow._ Her heart had slowed, gone numb. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She and Colin - they'd been friends since first year, first bonding over an admiration and crush on Harry, then sharing their dreams and aspirations and helping each other. Ginny wanted to play Quidditch, and Colin wanted to be a photographer, and they'd joked about him being the paparazzi and her the star, and even in the middle of a war they believed it could one day come true. _Not now. He's dead, he's gone._ She pressed her lips together. _Don't be weak, don't cry._ Colin cried all the time. Her grip on the handle tightened, bloodied knuckles turning whiter than the bandages.

She stepped outside of the door and shut it with a bang, though it didn't really matter - no-one was in the tower anyway. She was halfway down the stairs when it occurred to her that maybe she should have showered, or brushed her hair, but then she gave a shrug. _Anyone who tells me I should look pretty today can suck my ass._ Her sore feet carried her down the stairs, bridges aching each time they fell upon the red carpet, and the common room was empty. A bloodied jacket hung off an armrest, and a singular Ancient Runes textbook was sitting open near the fire, a few pages messily ripped out. Ginny found herself flopped on a couch, too tired to find anyone or do anything. Harry could've been a thousand miles away by now, and she suspected there was hardly anyone left at the school, unless they were cleaning up the bodies.

Her stomach clenched. _The bodies. Fred's body._ Tears burnt behind her eyes and she bit her lip until blood exploded in her mouth, head pounding. She ran her long nails across the bandages, tugging at them. Sharp pains stabbed through her, racking her body, but her eyes remained dry. _Do not cry. Gryffindors don't cry. Be brave. Be brave._ Some part of her collapsed on one of the couches, half the stuffing falling out of it and a lone spring cutting through the fabric. She wrapped her arms around her knees, breathing hard. The blood drowning her tongue was metallic and horrid and she spit it out at the carpet, legs trembling. She scraped the skin off of her palms, the flakes falling to the ground like soft snow in winter. Her throat burned and she shoved a hand into her mouth, sliding her fingers down her own throat to stop her from screaming, and her teeth bit at the ragged flesh, bile rising like floodwaters up through her chest. She was gagging and vomiting but she would not let herself cry, though her eyes blurred and the world spun and thumped around her, the dull, muted reds seeming vibrant and the flames of the fireplace roared in her ears. _I am a lion, be brave, be brave._

She stumbled towards the jacket and wrapped it around herself despite the burgeoning heat of late Spring. Stench rose from the now-abandoned couch, and she sidestepped the throw-up coating the floor, chunks of blood with it. Her stomach was light, and empty, chest hollow. Her palms were bleeding now, and the bandages around her knuckles loose and threadbare. _He's gone. Fred's gone. Being sad won't bring him back._ Ginny pushed her sorrows away, through a tiny locked door she hoped she'd never find again. The jacket stunk of sweat and death, but it wasn't her own, and for that, she was grateful.

What seemed like moments later she had found her way to the Great Hall, and was standing in the doorway, shivering just a little. Most of the bodies had gone save for a few at the very end, but there were still bloodstains smeared across the ground. There were no tables in the centre of the room, being replaced with a vast area of nothingness, where Harry and faced Voldemort. Her stomach tumbled and she clutched at her hair, yanking some to try and stop her crying. _Walk._

Her legs were heavy, like lead or deflated balloons, and so she dragged them along to the centre of the room, only looking straight ahead at the glistening stained-glass windows that had always been over the Staff table, probably for a thousand years or more. They'd been here on her very first day, when Percy had given her a quick pat on the back and the twins had laughed at her as she cowered in the crowd of first years, waiting to be sorted, and Ron had been nowhere in sight, nor had Harry. She'd been shaking back then, too, trying to tell herself over and over that just because she couldn't see them didn't mean she wasn't okay. That night, she'd waited until all the other girls in her dormitory were asleep, and then she'd open up the strange diary she'd found in her teetering pile of books and written in it for the first time to _Tom,_ and he'd been nice, and comforted her and said that surely they wouldn't get expelled, they were just having some fun. It was her own personal confidante, and it was wonderful.

He hadn't judged her for liking Harry, he didn't think she was stupid or weak or whiny or pointless. He didn't snap at her like the rest of her siblings often did. He was always there for her, he'd say the right thing, he told her she was _brilliant_ and _clever_ and _funny_ and that she was everything she had ever wanted to be. Tom had been kind to her, Tom had advised her on every issue in her life that year - nothing she said or did went unknown by him. She'd pushed away the others in her dormitory, in her house, in her classes - she didn't _need_ them when she had Tom.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, ignoring the sting, and swallowed hard. _Don't think about Tom._ Her wand was heavy next to her hand, like a separate, beating heart. Slow fingers twirled it around, gripping it tightly, just in case. _They're gone, Ginny, they're gone._ Her breath was ragged. She shut her eyes. _Tom's gone. He can't hurt you anymore._

"Ginny?"

The voice was familiar, a thick voice, deeper and quieter than Harry's. She kept her eyes closed, not turning around. An ache was running up the back of her neck, twisting and compressing. Ginny was sure that if she turned around, she would collapse.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me. Ginny." She felt his hand go to her shoulder, and flinched slightly. His breath was on her neck, warm and gentle with the slightest hint of cinnamon, one that she had loved to taste on his lips so long ago. Some part of her wanted to hug him, just to have someone's warm around her, just to let her know that she was not alone. She turned around, glancing up at his golden, wide eyes, and then swallowed. It was gone. He was slightly taller than he had been when she'd seen him last, and there was a lot more dried blood on him than before, too. He reached his hand out and she nodded, allowing him to gently place his hand on her shoulder.

"Neville and I have been looking for you," he gulped, brushing dark hair out of his eyes with one hand. "Most of your family has gone home, and Harry and Hermione have, too. I believe your friend Luna, and Neville are going there for dinner tonight with Mrs Longbottom and Mr Lovegood." He pushed his lip between his front teeth and Ginny took a single step back, eyes flicking between his face and the floor, not quite sure where to look. There was an aching in her chest, like something pawing at her insides, and there was a bottomlessness in her stomach as it growled with hunger. The sting in her knuckles had dulled to a distant sensation.

"Thanks, Dean. How am I getting there, exactly?" The words were spat out like fire and Dean recoiled from the burn. Ginny bit her tongue _hard_ , blood filling her mouth. She could only imagine her family waiting for her, worried, her mother fussing and her father's pale face whiter than usual. She could imagine George - _George,_ without Fred. _No more._

"The portkey leaves at three, Ginny, in about fifteen minutes, from the -" his voice broke, "-from where the courtyard used to be. Just be careful, there's still a lot of rubble." His eyes were red from crying, and she wondered who had died. _Seamus? Lavender? Parvati? Who else is there to have died?_

The answer came to her in a horrid rush of winds in her head. _Tom._ Panic rose and burnt her and she nearly started to cry again. Instead, she hugged Dean tight. He'd always supported Ron, and Harry and Gryffindor and he'd been in the D.A, too, and maybe he was a crappy boyfriend but he wasn't a crappy guy. His hands were gentle on her shoulders as he returned the hug.

"Go home, and stay safe, Ginny. I'm going with Seamus soon, too, we're going home. Make sure Ron and Harry are okay, yeah?" He pulled out of the hug and looked her straight in the eyes. "Promise me you'll be safe?" Anger tinged the panic and she took another step back, heart racing, head spinning. _Fred is gone and everyone will be crying but me. And he thinks he can tell me what to do._

"I'm not five, Dean," her voice was light and soft and she stormed off, tears freezing on her warm cheeks, determined not to look at him, or anyone. _Promise me._ She clenched her fists tight, hurriedly wiping her face but the crying would not cease.

"Why would I want to be safe?" It was a whisper only to be heard by herself and the bare walls of the castle she'd lived in for years. The portraits had fallen, burned or torn and in piles on the ground. The gaping holes in the stone and the roof let the breeze tumble through the ancient hallways, hissing against the sheen of blood and glass and broken things, almost like a snake. _Tom._ Her heart pumped wildly in her ears, thudding like the marching band's drums.

 _Tom._


	2. Feeling

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am most definitely not J.K Rowling. If I was, I would've actually been on television before.**

* * *

 _Tom._

The name still turned the veins in her wrists to snakes, still made the beasts writhe in her stomach, calling for blood. On occasion she'd fall asleep somewhere unfamiliar and wake up screaming, the dark consuming her as she tried to remember what she had done recently, what had happened, why she had fallen asleep. The memory check was a constant in her life, every day, just to be sure, to be sure, to be sure.

It was funny, almost - some might've suggested writing in a diary to help remember. The thought triggered some kind of twisted amusement. It was hard enough to keep her hand steady as she wrote in notebooks now - quills had been a living nightmare for weeks on end after her First Year, her father even investing in some muggle 'pens' to try and get her to write, her mother coaxing her into it and trying to bribe her with comfort foods and impossible promises. Every so often, still, she'd throw a book across the room and tear all of the feathers off of the quill, crying, ripping it and digging the nib into her skin, hating every second as his voice echoed in her mind, as she remembered the chickens and Mrs Norris and the blood. Showers had been nightmarish, baths worse, sobbing whenever she stepped into it, remembering the rushes of water in the Chamber of Secrets, and the Baslisk, twisting and turning with red eyes she tried not to look at. The snake still slithered through Ginny's dreams, hissing its secrets, whispering ' _open'_ in her ears a thousand times until she pressed her pillow around her head and tried to breathe, limbs trembling.

 _Don't remember it. Don't think. Breathe._

Neither Luna or Neville had arrived yet, as it turned out, so Ginny perched herself on one of the bigger pieces of stone that had probably tumbled down from the clocktower. The usually bustling school was a ghost town. _Two days ago, there were probably people sitting here studying for their Potions exam._ The sunlight was a dreary grey, flicking tall shadows across the ground. A cold lump rose in her throat, like ice, vaguely attempting to choke her.

Once, a hundred years ago, Ginny had worried too. She had chased bullies through here, wand in hand, she'd snogged Michael Corner under the fallen-down tree, she'd let Luna try all sorts of weird braids in her hair and gotten help from Neville with her Herbology homework. In First Year Ginny had cried to Percy about how much she missed home, clutching the diary tight in her hands, letting Tom listen, too. In later years, she'd laughed on the seats with Hermione and Harry and Ron, and then met up with the twins to prank whoever the unfortunate soul passing them was, usually Crabbe or Goyle or Theodore Nott. She shook her head, once, twice, three times, trying to clear it away. The twins had kicked off their brooms here, leaving a trail of fireworks and mayhem and magic. Fred and George had gone down in history, then starting their joke-shop...

 _It's going to be Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, not Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes._ She tore at her lip with teeth, blood boiling, heart racing as she desperately tried to hold back the hurricane of tears that was threatening to overflow. Ginny pressed her hands into the jagged edges of the rubble, the bandages she'd applied earlier now all but useless. Some part of her was floating, the stinging in her blood finally matching that of her heart. Her butt was going numb from the rockiness beneath her, and her neck was oddly exposed to the wind curling off the mountains in the distance. Her cheeks were frozen, eyes burning, and she stared at her feet, not really seeing.

"It's okay to cry."

The other girl hugged her tight and without hesitation Ginny buried her face in Luna's chest, wrapping her arms around her. Luna rested her chin on Ginny's forehead, cold skin meeting, soft folds brushing against each other. Ginny pressed her lips together. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry._ Luna knelt down, arms still wrapped around Ginny, but gave her room to breathe. Their eyes met, brown on blue, and Ginny was still gasping ragged breaths. The blond reached out and wiped a tear off of her cheek, eyes wide and full of worry. Ginny's bottom lip wobbled, and she bit at it again to try and stop. Luna frowned, cradling Ginny's cheek in her hand as the other girl drew her knees up to her chest and looked away, out at the sprawling grounds of the school, littered with rocks and...the bodies. Her chest expanded and then compressed tightly in a slow, rotating motion, and she nearly groaned with the effort of breathing. Her head throbbed as though it had been hit with one hell of a curse, and her feet were a lot shakier than originally thought.

"Crying's okay, Ginny. Everybody's crying today." Ginny pushed her head between her knees, trying to block the sounds out. "You don't need to be brave."

"I _must_ be brave!" The words were like stones against Luna's fragile skin, and Ginny's eyes were blazing, fists tight and shaking. "My brother is _dead_ and the other five won't deal with it! I can hardly fall into George's arms and expect him to comfort me when he'll be in more pain than I can know!" Her tongue was barbed and sharp and cut trails of blood across Luna's face, her eyes bugging out, corners of her lips downturning. "What do you expect me to do, Luna? Just cry and wimp out for a bit and then be over it?" She tried to stand up but fell, legs like jelly unable to carry her. Ginny hit the ground hard, now off of the giant rock, spitting and coughing blood. " _Crying won't bring Fred back!"_ Her glare rose upwards, face dusted in blood and scars and a fine layer of ash from the fires still burning around the grounds. _How could she be so stupid, how could she think that, how could Luna think that I could be okay?_

Luna extended her hand out to Ginny. "Neville will be here soon. We're going to your mother's, Ginny, you can be with your family." There was a long stretch of silence only marked by the quivering of Ginny's shoulders. "Or we can not go back. If you don't want to see them, you can come to my house, Daddy will be happy to have a visitor, he always says it's good if I have friends over."

"They'll worry if I'm not home. Mum'll freak, probably." _If they notice, if they aren't too busy shredding themselves over Fred._ She shrugged. "Not that it matters."

"I'll get Daddy to send them an owl so they don't worry." Ginny gingerly took Luna's hand and stumbled to her feet, leaning largely on the shorter girl just to be able to stand, letting go as she got up, before stumbling.. Luna wrapped an arm around her and, slowly, they began to walk, edging around the stray stones. Her body was slowly starting to ache with fatigue and a small part of her wondered how much she had actually slept in the morning. By the time it had all been over it had been about four - and then she'd woken up sometime near two. _Ten hours._ It would've been enough, normally, when she got Bill or George (they were the best at disguising charms) to change her hair and eyes and lips and nose in the mornings and stumbled into work at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The twins had stayed up in the top room, occasionally coming downstairs in the guise of casual workers, and when the Ministry of Magic came to call they'd often do a half-hearted inspection (for all she hated the git Percy, part of her was certain their blind-eye had been only due to his meddling).

Today, it wasn't enough. Ginny was sure she could sleep forever and still be in pain when she woke.

"What about Neville?" The redhead exchanged a look with the blond, who shrugged, as if nothing could matter less.  
"He'll know. Neville's very clever, you know. And I think his grandmother was going, too." Luna beamed, showing off all her white teeth, and Ginny's lips managed to turn up, a feat she hadn't thought was possible. Her heart raced a little. It was a sudden change to the slow dreariness dragging the day on. It made her feel light. Not in the bad way.

Ginny stopped. Just for a moment. Luna glanced up at her, with wide, beautiful eyes and clear skin, a cute little button nose and dimples and white, _white_ teeth. Her clothes were a little ripped - blue tank top with a pink cardigan over the top, a gaping hole down the side, singed, and a pair of stunning dark jeans. Luna was smiling, one eyebrow furrowed, just slightly. Heat rose to Ginny's face. There was a tear across the sleeve of the top. Luna's bra strap was a brilliant blue, patterned with pink birds. Vaguely, she wondered what type they were. _Galahs?_ They seemed obscure enough to be Luna's type of bird. It was a very pretty bra, with laced edges. It didn't look like something you could buy at Madam Malkin's, in the back room.

Ginny went redder, stomach twisting as she realised she had been staring. Quickly, she tore her eyes away and instead focused on the ground. Luna's hand trailed down from her shoulders, across her back, with light, soft fingers. Ginny flinched. Luna intertwined their fingers loosely, just as a - as a friend would. Ginny ignored the heat rising inside of her and her doubtlessly bright red face, but she did squeeze Luna's hand. Just once. As a thank-you. Luna nodded slightly, turning her attention to the clumsy stairs ahead. Ginny chewed her lip in thought.

"How are we getting there?" Luna shook her head, seeming mystified by Ginny's supposed ignorance.

"Trust."

* * *

Ginny stretched out on the makeshift bed in Luna's room, pulling at her own long red hair. While it had been cool in the day the heat had sunk in as the night wore on, strangely enough. Mr Lovegood was having dinner at her family's house, as were most, and had entrusted the house to the girls for the few hours he was gone, so naturally they had set up Ginny's bed and were now lounging in Luna's room.

She hadn't quite understood, at first, why her family had decided to host dinner of the day of - on that very day. Ginny had supposed they wouldn't be up for it. Apparently George wasn't going, but nearly everyone else was; the Diggorys, too, and the Longbottoms, and poor old Andromeda Tonks and her baby orphan grandson Teddy. It was illogical. Facing a group of people that large would've surely killed her - her stomach would have fallen and she would've cried and cried until she screamed.

But the gaping hole hadn't occurred to her. For her, it was a hole that wouldn't be band-aided by inviting a bunch of people over for dinner.

Luna looked up from her bed, now changed into her pyjamas, which were a mustard yellow colour with dancing blue dragons across from it. Ginny was near certain she'd seen a pair like that on Charlie, at some point in time. Luna was much prettier than Charlie, though, with her hair and eyes nearly matching the fabric. Head against the bright wall behind her and she almost looked like she was little, again, if it wasn't for the faint scratch across her lip.

 _I wonder if it would hurt if someone kissed it._

Ginny immediately turned the embarrassing shade of tomato all Weasleys seemed to go when thoughts like that rushed through their heads and she fell back onto the rough little mattress. Her arms tingled slightly. _Hey, she's my friend. It's perfectly normal to wonder that. If, maybe, someone wanted to kiss her, and she couldn't speak, because she was like sick or something, I could then tell them not to. It's an important thing to know._ She breathed a little easier. _That's why._

Luna's feet landed softly on the fluffy blue carpet, and her legs folded beneath her as she sat next to Ginny, reaching her hand out and placing it lightly on Ginny's arm. Ginny turned her head slightly to look at the other girl, cheek falling eventually so they were fully facing each other.

"If you don't want to talk to me, you can talk to Harry. I don't mind." Ginny sat up as if she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning.

"Why would I want to talk to Harry, the git? He just - he just comes in - and-" she dug her fingers into her thighs, "-it's over." She stood up abruptly, her leg starting to heal, and limped across the room to the diamond-shaped window, gazing out at the distant orange horizon, the sky glowing with soft starbursts.

"You care." Luna was up, too, and next to Ginny in an instant, hand brushing her shoulder. "That's okay."

Ginny clenched her fists. "I care, but I don't want to. He probably doesn't, there's so much else going on." She took a deep breath, warm Spring air filling her lungs. "It's over. We can be friends. But he doesn't know what I've gone through, and probably doesn't want to. He won't understand it, he has his own thing." Every word made her more certain, every sentence solidified her hurricane of thoughts. "He ran off to find some shit that's supposed to help him fight and then died and came back a hero. I care for him." Red hair spilled across her shoulders, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned to Luna. "But there are more important people than him."

They met eyes.

"There's you."


	3. Stars

**Disclaimer: I'm not J.K Rowling, I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I'd already have booked front-row tickets to Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.**

* * *

The night had blurred into day and night again, the sky rising from soft oranges to pinks and vibrant lilacs, high blues and deep pools of midnight, sometimes scattered with drawling white clouds or sudden bursts of silver dotting the creamy path across the deep purple of night. Blond and red mixed as they sprawled out of the tall green grass, tickling toes, holding wrists as their pulses quickened to match the other's. Ginny hadn't been home for three days. It didn't matter.

The Lovegoods didn't usually have visitors, and so Ginny allowed Luna to bubble with excitement, acting as a guide to all the strange artefacts hidden in the lopsided house. There were strange horns in the basement, seashell dream-catchers and paintings that looked a little abstract, almost like the art they had learned about in Muggle Studies, in fifth year. _Professor Burbage._ It was little memories, not unlike that, that triggered the creeping fingers up her spine and the shaking and the cold hands around her neck, the bitten lips and the bloody wrists. Tom had killed Professor Burbage, too. Tom had killed everyone. The tour continued, despite Ginny's tight lips and hollow face, though Luna offered her a hand to squeeze tight, one which Ginny gladly took, forcing back tears.

The whole house was a twisting mess of beauty, with certain similarities that threw Ginny off her feet as she dreamt of the corridors she'd prowled for the last five years. There were little rooms burrowing off the sides of hallways, no bigger than broom cupboards with no real purpose other than to be littered with diagrams of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks or jars of Billywig stingers (she'd have to be careful not to let Percy ever visit - she was sure that using Billywig Stingers in potions for recreational use had been outlawed half a century ago). It was a different kind of crazy to the Burrow - her home was covered with old racing broomsticks and garbage bags of boys clothes from the 70s and bad pictures of her parents at some muggle concert and portraits of distant Weasleys, all with red-hair and half a dozen forgotten, well-thumbed cooking books and old spell books from probably a hundred years before and broken wands and comics and Chudley Canons posters and every article of headwear imaginable, whereas Luna's house was like a wonderland of things you'd never even thought of, the most impractical, unused specimens, perched on pedestals as though some grey-green scrap of fur was as priceless as the first Holyhead Harpies collectible calendar. Luna loved it, and Ginny loved it just because Luna did.

Even the dinners were crazy - one night she was served Dirigible Plums as if they were a perfectly normal substitute for, say, peas, and found them to be surprisingly juicy but otherwise not at all unlike the plums her mother bought, not counting the littering of half-a-dozen leaves and spices and 'home-brewed' butterbeer. When they slept she often heard Luna's dad at work in the basement, the little explosions a reminder of what home had once been.

 _That was before Fred was gone. When they'd experiment in their room, and if I was really really good and really really lucky and they were in a good mood, I'd sneak in and help them._

Thinking about the twins hurt, and her hands shook and her heart got stuck in her throat, so she just followed Luna around and didn't think at all.

* * *

"Do you need to borrow my clothes?"  
Four days since the battle.

Ginny surveyed herself in the ratty, rusted mirror that belonged to Luna, covered in flower stickers and little marker scribbles. Tatty jeans, and a grey shirt stained with crusted blood. Her hair would have made her mother faint, and dirt was building in her pores, under her nails. Her cheeks were turning hollow, dark circling around her eyes, dragging her whole face down. She hadn't showered since April, and there was a slow stench staining her clothes. She turned back to the blond, who was lounging on her bed, reading a copy of the Quibbler.

"No, I'm right, Luna. Thanks." She sat down next to the other girl, bed creaking. "Are there papers out already?"

"This is an old copy." Luna raised a tired hand, shaking out her hair, fringe falling in her face. Ginny wanted to tuck it behind her ear, to run a finger across her pale cheek. _Not with hands like this._ She swallowed, hard, and tied her own hair up into a ponytail. "Nobody is allowed to print until the eighth. New ministry ruling. Daddy thinks it's stupid, because Fanged Bipotoms can heal curses, but not a soul will know that if we can't print!" She threw the copy of the Quibbler aside, looking wide-eyed at Ginny. "I think it's because everyone will want to interview Harry, because he defeated Voldemort and all, and they don't want him saying bad things to the press right away when everyone's still scared."

Ginny fell back on the bed, heart sinking. "You're right, you know. You're always right." Even if she'd wanted to go home, it wouldn't bring anything good. Harry and Ron and Hermione would be shut up together, as always, and wouldn't want to talk to her - they never did, she'd never been good enough to be apart of their little trio. The last time she had gotten close was back in her fourth year, and that had ended in a disaster. They wouldn't want that again, not now of all times.

She rolled onto her stomach.

"It's not far from here to where I can get some actual decent clothes." She couldn't call it home; she'd tried but the word burned a hole and filled her mouth with ash and she nearly choked on it, so instead she pressed her lips together, tight as she could, and waited for a response.  
"You would be okay with that? You are avoiding them." There was a hand on her back that she nearly pushed away, fingers curling back into her palm at the very last second. Ginny clenched her teeth tight. "I could go, instead. I wouldn't mind."  
"No. That's not fair." Her wrist rested on the windowsill, curtains skimming the light skin, prickling the blue veins that ran wild under the freckles, a twisting maze, like tree roots, growing and beating fast, carrying liquids to keep her breathing. "I'll go, I can face it." _Liar._

"Are you-"  
"I'm sure!" It came out harder than she meant and her whole body struck upright, feet hitting the floor with a thud. Her head throbbed, back aching as she pulled on her boots and hastily pushed herself into a clumsy standing position. "I'm sure." She ducked her head on the way out, not bothering to wait for a response, and edged her way down the stairs, careful not to wake any of the pixies in the room on the left on the second floor, or worse, Mr Lovegood. Plodding across the bottom floor, she hit her toe on the corner of the couch and swore, shoving it out of the road, one of Luna's sketchbooks falling open.

She didn't mean to look - it was personal, private, like a diary. _Diary._ Whoever Tom had been, however many bad things he had done...He hadn't told. _Ever._ Just he and herself knew. Sketchbooks were probably like that, too, maybe. (Ginny hoped not; Ginny didn't want Luna to have the nightmares too, the thought of Luna screaming and retching and clutching at her hair as the whole world turned on her...It hurt enough to have it happen to yourself.) It was a bright and colourful page it had happened upon, filled with odd blue hues. It was a symbol of some sort, a twirling tall wand, wrapped in ivy, emitting cobalt sparks against a sea made of aqua waves and green seaweed hiding ducking mermaids. It was a strange picture, one that followed a stream of consciousness Ginny never would have even thought of.

Voices whispered in her ear, like a choir, and her heartstrings seemed to tug. Her fingers traced the dark outlines of the wand. She hadn't even realised she had bent down. The song in her skull grew louder, almost like a screaming chorus, and her vision blurred. The world danced around her. _Tom._ His hand was on her shoulder, pushing it down, dark hair a mess as he smiled that knowing smirk. _I can help you, Ginny...I'll never tell anyone, I promise._ He hadn't broken it. He had never told anyone. Ever. Her ears rung, sirens ringing out, like bells. His fingers curled around her wrists, running across the raised scars, the grip turning into a strangulation...She slowly ripped the picture out of the book, carefully folding it in half, Tom's fingers pressing it down, as though he was there, too. His breath was on her neck, steady as ever. The picture went into her pocket.

Standing upright, she took a careful hop over the threshold, and set her jaw.

 _Careful, Ginny._


	4. Return

**Disclaimer: I'm not J.K Rowling, therefore I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, Ginny would've been a main fucking character.**

* * *

The door was locked, which was rather odd.

The door was never locked; no matter if it was George sneaking out to prank someone, Fred sneaking in a girl, Ginny stumbling back after spending the night lurking in the village with some of the rather cute muggle boys who, despite not having a drop of magical blood in their veins, were good enough kissers and good enough at making rather... _enjoyable_ potions.

She was nearly tempted to sneak to one of their houses; no doubt Hayden or Scott or Jason or Ryan would let her in without so much as a question; she'd known them for years, in a lot of ways she didn't necessarily know the people she went to school with, or Luna (not necessarily for lack of want). Ginny swallowed. Maybe not Jason; that whole incident with him walking in on her and his sister Marny had perhaps put a touch of strain between the pair.

She squatted down, one hand on her pocket, on that strange little sketch, and the other lifting up the mat. Her eyes scanned the bricks for any sign of a key, but came up empty. _Weird._ Surely, somewhere there would be a key. Her parents would never risk one of them being left outside, not in the cold and the dark without anywhere proper to sleep. There was always a key, somewhere, or the door was simply unlocked.

Ginny pulled out her wand and pointed it at the lock, eyebrows almost meeting in the middle as they furrowed downwards. _"Alohomora."_ The rusted lock sparked, but didn't open. She took a breath. Suddenly, air rushed around her, whistling in her ears and her feet were swept off the ground and she hit the ground hard, gasping for air. _Wards._ Her palms stung and she stared up at the dark sky. A million stars shone bright, dressed in silver and gold, and her head spun, throbbing, aching. Her throat closed up. _Wards._ Since when? Were they scared? Had something..happened?

Part of her leapt forward, rattling the door, screaming for someone to come and let her in, but the other part stayed grounded, digging fingers into the soft earth. Everyone would wake up and there would be panic; then would come the questions. Where had she been, who had she been with, how was she _coping_ , why hadn't she been home yet, why didn't she say she was coming, why didn't she just stay another night? The air stroked her neck with long, lazy kisses of the last of the winter cold. Red hair falling down her shoulders, pale skin bared to the swirl of the night, she watched the stars glitter, all wanted and happy and in a permanent spot, with no uncertainty or worries. They were just stars; big burning balls of gas. _Pretty from a distance, but you don't want to get close._ Nails scraped across her solar plexus as her chest emptied out.

The sketch blew softly in the wind, corners crumpling a little, and she looked down in surprise at it. Darkness was shrouding the paper in a mask of shadow, but the water seemed to be rippling, somehow, almost as if the wind was blowing on it, too. She shut her eyes, feeling veins pulse through her eyelids, fingers shaking a little as she clutched her wand tight in one hand and the sketch in another. A harsh rush of ice fell over her, water bubbling up her nose and running through her ears, filling her lungs until she choked, knuckles cramping from the death grip. Her legs were lifted into weightlessness, pants clinging to the dirt-encrusted skin, washing it away, pushing beneath it and tearing it off.

The very tip of her wand flared up in flickering yellow and orange, heat quivering through the marrow in her bones as the water rose in her throat. Feebly kicking towards the light, blue gushing water turning to a black poison, red took over her vision. Panic was next in line. Her stomach fell out, the waters rose and the sky was gone, as was the ground, for now she was drowning in an ocean she'd never wanted to see, tides ripping at her hands, trying to undo them.

 _"Alohomora."_

There was a wave beneath her, bubbling and stirring until it turned into a strange sort of tsunami, dragging her knees and jerking her toes, chest collapsing, thrashing wildly until her neck screamed. Clawing at her lips, her throat, her lungs, the water surged and flung her upwards, spinning towards a non-existent surface and maybe, just maybe, into those burning balls of gas. She felt something cool and spherical press into her palm, and she twisted her wrist just as the black overcame her. The door swung open and the water evaporated, leaving her on the doorstep. Her head hit the ground with a _thump._ There was a faint ringing sound, like an alarm. Her living room blurred and then came into sharp focus. The tartan rug on the couch stood out, all red and green. On it was a silvery, fringed pillow with something green spilt on it.

There were footsteps, somewhere. Ginny tried to step forward, but her knee hit the ground. _Shit._ She grasped at it, gritting her teeth, pain screaming. She fell to her side, head limp. She became a ball, rocking back and forth, knee twitching.

The world caught up with her and she fell out of consciousness.

* * *

The tartan rug was crunchy beneath her fingers, against her skin. It was wrapped around her, flattening her hair into the back of her neck. It sort of itched. The feeling in her knee was dulled but still noticeable. She pushed her lip between her teeth, trying to breathe. Ron sat on a stool in front of her, face lined, eyebrows crossed to match his arms.

"Where the bloody hell have you been, Ginny?" He hissed, shrugging the flannel jacket off of his shoulders. Ginny rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. Keeping her head up, her eyes open, was an effort in and of itself. She shrugged as a response, her head lolling to the side, onto her shoulder.

"Wake the fuck up! If you're going to fucking break in you may as fucking well explain this fucking shit!" Ron shook her hard, fingers digging into her. She turned her head away, moaning. Darkness floated over her like clouds.

"Luna." Ron's grip lessened just a little. She pressed her wrist into her forehead, pouting. "Lemme sleep. Tell tomorrow. Morning." _Never._ She could leave tomorrow, maybe. Get up early, and yes.

"What fucking mad spell did you use?" He leaned forward. She tossed her head with a groan. He was so _stupid._

"No." Her thoughts ran still, transfixed on the sketch. "Magic drawing. Luna." Ginny pulled the blanket around her tighter. _Where's that pillow?_

"I'm not going to tell Mum. Hermione's got your room, you're sharing. But you tell me tomorrow. Explain properly." She rolled her eyes, kicking a lazy foot at him. He didn't flinch.

"You sound like..." Her head throbbed. "..Percy."

He clambered to his feet. "Fuck off!"

"Okay." Her eyes fluttered shut, a hole in her chest. She felt Ron scoop her up. Her heart stopped, confused - he'd never been able to pick her up before, not since she was very little. _Never._ She used to be able to pick up Ron, though, sometimes. Luna too. _Luna._ "I shouldn't." Twisted stomach. Shaking hands, closed eyes. _I shouldn't have stormed out._ But Luna would know. Hopefully. _I hope Luna doesn't cry._ The last time Ginny had stormed out on Luna had been in _third year._ Luna had cried then, and thought everyone hated her. _Everyone hates me now, don't they? I wasn't home. Maybe._ Ginny had never known a life without a crowd of people around her, and even alone in the darkness of night there were still people sleeping in all the other rooms, and over at the Lovegoods' and probably at the Diggorys', too. There were still people. The only time she'd ever been alone had been in the Chamber of Secrets, miles under the school, only with snakes and ghosts. But the ghosts had bitten poison and the snakes had whispered melancholies.

He dumped her on the bed, and it creaked under her weight. Arnold scuttled up into her chest, nuzzling her. Her stomach sunk. "I thought you lot forgot." She wrapped one hand around the Pygmy Puff and pulled it closer. _Fred gave me this._ Arnold quivered and whimpered. Ron left, eventually.

She slept again, with green and silver gowns dancing through her head. Tom Riddle stood with green glinting yes in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets, water gushing and rising like floodwaters. Harry kissed her, lips soft, and flecks of his skin swirled around her until he became little more than a skeleton. Luna screamed and wrapped her arms around Ginny, and a cold woman with a turned-up collar and dark hair, pulled into a severe bun walked towards her, carrying a torch. She found herself holding a crossbow and shot it, hitting a boy's stomach as he tumbled off the Astronomy Tower, Professor Snape's hooked nose sneering down at her. Ron was crying blood and a tiny boy with dark hair and brown eyes blazing and freckles clutched at her hand.

The sketch floated in front of her against brilliant white until the murky waters consumed it, and her heart started with a _bang._


	5. Recover

**A/N:** Sorry about the hiatus. The year came and went so fast I couldn't think. But I'm going to try to continue this. I still love this. And I still don't own Harry Potter.

Also; read the Cursed Child. Makes my stuff kinda non-canon compliant. But, hey, that's okay. It's fanfic after all.

* * *

 _It's meant to get easier._

Her mum thought she was on drugs. Ron, the arsehole, had probably told her as much. Luna hadn't visited. Ginny still wasn't quite sure what had happened. She lay in bed, drifting in and out of nightmares. Ron came in with food, and water, and told her to call out for him whenever she woke. Sometimes, she had no energy. She just laid there and stared at the ceiling, sometimes wiggling her fingers, trying to make sense of it all. She didn't cry. Ron kept trying to coax what had happened out of her, leaving with red ears. She couldn't explain. She couldn't even try.

On the third day, Hermione arrived. Ginny's stomach twisted. It wasn't as though they weren't friends; they had been very close. But Hermione had left her behind - just like Ron, just like Harry. Run off into the woods. _Am I not good enough for any of you? Have I not been through enough to prove myself to you?_ It came out as a groan. Hermione conjured a chair from somewhere and sat down, her mad bush of hair falling into her face. Her eyebrows were dark and thick, mouth in a thin line. _Almost like Professor McGonagall, when she's angry._ That had been often, as of late. The lump in her throat swelled; _Fred had always made her angry._

"Ginny." It was like the crack of a whip. Hermione seemed to realise this, and cleared her throat. "Ginny." The tone was softer, if only by a little. It still did not meet the marshmallow of Luna's gentle lullabies. That girl could make near anything into a fairytale. Ginny did not sit up at all, or even wave. She opened her eyes, and groaned again. Hermione folded her arms, looking strict. Ginny longed to pull the covers over her head and hide.

"When was the last time you showered?" Hermione asked, very quickly, as if the pain of the conversation would be lesser if she got it over with, like ripping off a bandaid. "We're all very worried about you, yes, and we know you were staying with the - _Lovegoods._ Ginny, if they've fed you any, any nonsense hallucinogenics, you tell us and we'll off with them right away, I have no mind to trust that Xenophilius fellow." This was almost more than Ginny could handle. She pushed her cheek into the mattress and squeezed her eyes tight. Hermione sighed. "Ginny. This is - very hard for all of us. I don't know what it's like to lose a brother, but - Ron is grieving very much too. You all are. And, and, you need to be together, to _support_ each other. Fred wouldn't want this."

This sent a cold rush to her chest, a fire burning on ice. "How would you know what he wants, Hermione?" Her jaw ached from use. The nightmares seemed better than conversation. The older girl _tutted_ and continued chattering on. Ginny wanted to fade away.

"Ginny - really - you can't stay hidden here all day. Your mother is worried sick. Please, just shower. Just a shower. It isn't too unreasonable, now, is it? Standing under some hot water?"

Ginny buried her head deeper into the pillow. "Don't tell me what's reasonable. Go away." She heard the chair creak, and breathed a sigh of relief. _Gone._ She stretched out her arms, revelling in the feeling of her elbows locking, muscles tightening, and then the release as she pulled them back down. It was comforting. Maybe some people found comfort in crying, when they lost someone, but she couldn't quite understand that; crying made her feel worse, it made her feel weak. She liked to be strong. Strong people could survive anything. _I wasn't as strong as I thought I was. I am breaking._

The darkness came and disappeared, came, and disappeared again, and she awoke to a cold feeling on her forehead. She tried to push it away, rolling over, but a hand touched her cheek. _Tom._ Ginny kicked wildly. _Get him off!_ He would sit on her chest and lean over and touch her cheek and drag her down, drag her away and she would do thing and _hiss_ and he would make her hurt people _hiss_ kill people.

 _Hiss._

"Get off!" She drove her fist into his stomach, her eyes still shut, screaming.

"Ginny!" Something wet fell onto her legs and two hands gripped the side of her face. She opened her eyes. Hermione stared back at her, eyes full of concern. "Ginny, Ginny, it's me, Hermione. You had a fever. I'm trying to help you. Please, you need to cool down." The duvet was gone. Ginny groaned, and Hermione picked up the cloth off of her legs, and began dabbing her forehead. Dazed, the redhead sat up a little. It was hard to tell if the liquid on her head was sweat or water. "It's okay. I'll just let them know you aren't going. Really, you're quite ill, I don't know why they even thought of inviting you."

Fire roared in her stomach. _Don't make decisions for me._ "What's tonight?" She propped herself up on her elbows, allowing the bushy-haired girl to begin wiping her neck.

Hermione wouldn't meet her eyes. "Lee - and Ron - and a few others, they're having a - memorial. Memorial drink. Nothing official. They're just hitting the Leaky for Firewhisky. In his memory." _Firewhisky._ She'd scarcely had it before - Hogwarts under the reign of Death Eaters hadn't been opportune for underage drinking, and before then had been a once-off in a party in the Room of Requirement in her fifth year. The black-out had given her a sense of terror, a crawling in her veins she couldn't escape, but for the few hours she'd spent intoxicated, it was as though nothing mattered. Only later had she panicked. _I'll deal with 'later' later._

"I'll go." She sat up fully now, red hair falling in her eyes. Hermione pressed her lips together.

"You won't be drinking though, you aren't that stupid. Firewhisky is _illegal_ if you're under seventeen," she said sternly. Ginny shrugged but gave a nod.

"You think I'm dumb enough to drink?" The ginger's head still spun as she sat up. Hermione reluctantly pulled her hand away.

"I'll go now and tell Ron to wait for you. You're flooing. Thirty minutes." She lingered on the bed for a few more seconds. Ginny yawned and arched her back. People said alcohol numbed the pain, and, in this case, she hoped they were right. There was a sound from upstairs. Both her and Hermione's heads shot up. _Fred and George's room._ Her gut twisted.  
"Go, Hermione. I need to get ready." The brunette gave her a quick once-over, before nodding and leaving the room. Ginny pulled off her days-old shirt, and wriggled out of her borrowed jeans. Without bothering to close the blinds, or her bedroom door, she stripped out of her bra and underwear, searching on the floor for a new set of clothes. She found black panties and a plunge Ginny had never tried before. Slowly, she put it on. The material was nice against her skin, the wires giving her a strange sense of comfort, a strange strength. If she had wire around her, holding her up, maybe she could act normal.

Her eyes scanned the ground for a dress, something small and tight and simple, and she found a little black one. She wriggled it on, finding that it was strapless. Freckles blemished her shoulders, and her neck. Fingers ran across her exposed collarbone, noting the moles and scars across it. People had always called her pretty, when she was younger. Even as recently as last year. She combed the knots out of her red waves with her hands. Maybe the marks changed that, the lines from where the Carrows had cut into her when she fought, the maps of where she'd cut into herself when she hadn't tried to stop them. A timeline of action and guilt, action and guilt.

 _The sketch._ The waters had risen like a tidal wave, trying to drown her, as if she could drown in memories. _But I can't. They won't kill me. They won't kill me._ She wasn't going to let Tom touch her. He was supposed to be gone. Dead. Harry had killed him. _Harry._ The boy who lived, the boy who had tried to protect her, the boy who died and came back. _Unlike Fred. Fred is never coming back. Hence the drink._ Shutting her eyes, she walked across her room, instinctively dodging clothes on the floor and the end of her bed. Ginny opened them again when she entered the hall. A little yellow light hung just above her head, swinging limply. It showed the stains on the carpet from years of a huge family running amuck in the house, stains of blood and sweat and food and pus, owl droppings and spilt potions and water. Closing her hands into fists, she stormed downstairs.

Harry was there, of course. In jeans and a tight red shirt, messy hair ruffled, probably from an attempt to comb it back. He lingered in the corner of the living room, she could feel his emerald eyes on her.

"Ginny," he said, lightly, and then pausing. She glanced at him. He cleared his throat. "You're up. That's - that's good, I'm glad."

"You're not dead anymore," she replied, raising her eyebrows. He shuffled awkwardly.

"Uh, no. I'm not dead." He tugged at his shirt. Ginny felt the weights on her wrist tighten.

"You're one of the lucky ones, then." Hermione gasped. Harry looked down.

"Ginny!" Ron hissed, angry. "Don't even - you know he didn't - he-!"

"You think I wanted him to die?" Harry spat, green eyes fierce. Ginny recognised the trembling in his hands, the vein going in his throat. "You think I wanted Voldemort to murder all those people? Not just Fred, but Lupin and Tonks, too? What about Colin?" He was yelling, and Ron had an arm around him, holding him. Ginny didn't say anything, just stared, fists ready to fight if need be. _All gone. All of them gone. Even Colin._ Colin, her friend, who took silly photos to make her laugh, who'd never called her weird or creepy or strange. He too had laid still in the Great Hall, body cold.

"I know you didn't _want_ them to die, Harry," she managed, a horrible hole opening in her knees, making them weak, making her head spin. "But you didn't try hard enough to stop them."

"Ginny!" Hermione was scolding her, now, as if she was a little girl. "Don't you say that, you don't understand what happened-"

"You didn't let me understand! You made me wait at the school and do _nothing_ but be tortured by the Carrows for a year and yet, and yet, _you three_ expect me to understand when this whole time you've been telling me I'm not old enough to! I've dealt with Tom more than _you_ ever have, Ron, Hermione, so don't you give me this shit about trying to protect me when in my first year you were too busy laughing at me and my stupid fucking crush to realise I was being _possessed!"_ She stormed away, grabbing floo powder, sprinkling it into the fire. Headfirst, she walked in, no fear, not even checking if the flames had yet turned green. _"The Leaky Cauldron,"_ she murmured, spinning away through the chimneys.


End file.
